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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28629012">Cereal, Gas Station Keychains, &amp; Endless War</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/snimpsnamp/pseuds/snimpsnamp'>snimpsnamp</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>2020 L'Manberg Election on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Dad!Schlatt AU, Dream Team SMP - Freeform, Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP Spoilers (Video Blogging RPF), Post-Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Pre-Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), The Dadschlatt AU gives me life, dream smp au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:09:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,085</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28629012</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/snimpsnamp/pseuds/snimpsnamp</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tubbo wasn’t the type to stay awake for car rides, all it’d take is one little fib, and-</p>
<p>“Where’we going, pop?” Tubbo mumbles, squeezing the little bee plush cradled in his arms close and burying his face between the bee’s wings. Schlatt finds himself stopping in the middle of the hallway, squeezing Tubbo a little closer in a tight embrace. A part of him is screaming to turn around- To tuck Tubbo back in, and get back into bed, and forget he ever considered this. Go back. Go back. Go back. You don’t have to do this, not now. Not yet. You can keep trying, he doesn’t hate you yet, you haven’t fucked everything up yet, you can still go back.</p>
<p>“Road trip, buddy,” Schlatt finds himself whispering instead, offering a small, sleepy smile. Tubbo can’t see it, his eyes are already closed again. Schlatt carries on the lie anyways, moreso to comfort himself than anything else. “To see an old friend. You’re gonna love it, where we’re goin’.”</p>
<p>The words are bitter on Schlatt's tongue, they taste like acid and iron, and the feeling is dizzying.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cereal, Gas Station Keychains, &amp; Endless War</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i wrote this for a cool friend of mine and also just because i had some SERIOUS inspiration after watching a few dadschlatt animatics. a few things to note before going into this so be sure to read the notes, ill know id u didnt and i will find u;</p>
<p>the dadschlatt au is essentially a dream smp au where schlatt was tubbos dad and tubbo doesnt remember him due to him abandoning him at a young age</p>
<p>quite a few of the present events / flashback events in this story were actual events that occurred on either tommy or tubbos streams, with like, 2 or 3 exceptions. so spoilers. also the flashbacks and flashforwards and shit are represented by a series of three dashes and a 2 line split between each paragraph so im hoping that makes it pretty clear</p>
<p>this story uses some EXTREMELY recent material from the dream smp story so beware of spoilers! theres a lot of them!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For four years, Schlatt has been clean. Not a single time has he gone out drinking, snuck out to the kitchen in the dead of night for a quick swig of bourbon- But oh, how the temptation was ever-present, always taunting him, always right there, luring him in but never quite getting him to move his feet to get closer to the addiction he’d escaped. Perhaps it was just his pessimistic ways that led him back to the thought over and over again, despite having long-passed the withdrawal stages of his addiction. It was those compelling little thoughts as he lay awake at night, wondering if he could make an exception just once and knowing he couldn’t afford to- God, why had he agreed with this? Not that he really had, it was sort’ve shoved onto him without any warning. </p>
<p>The question always melted away when he’d hear the quiet pitter patter of stumbly legs wobbling down the hallway, drawing him back to reality to realize that light was beaming into his room from the window, and he’d been awake all night again- Just in time to hear the softest, most polite little knock on his door. And he’d smile, and stagger out of bed to greet the kind little guest.</p>
<p>Tubbo was what Schlatt- these days, anyways- would define as the perfect son. Quiet, polite, and only ever a trouble-maker when he had his father to cause trouble with him. Any time there was an incident or a tantrum, he’d somehow find a way to figure out what the problem was- as troublesome and difficult as it was for Schlatt to do so, he couldn’t bring himself to be angry with Tubbo.</p>
<p>His real name wasn’t Tubbo, obviously- Schlatt hadn’t even named the boy, the woman he’d hooked up with five years ago had. Before she left the poor kid at his door and disappeared into thin air, anyways. Schlatt had tried to sort out which woman it was- He really had, he didn’t want to be the one who had to raise Tubbo, he didn’t think he was ready. He still doesn’t. But to say Schlatt asked for the phone number of every damn woman he hooked up with would be a great, great overstatement. That gave the wrong impression. He was never interested in having anything permanent, and didn’t want to paint it any other way. So when Schlatt woke up to an insistent knocking on his door at four in the morning one night- When he’d pulled his pillow over his head to try to muffle it, only for it to get louder until he eventually snarled a gruff- “Fuck off, I’m on my way!”- When he’d finally dragged his feet to the door of his apartment, only to pull it open and see a bag, a note, and a child of all things laying on his metaphorical doormat, he was, obviously, stunned.</p>
<p>The note read a simple, ‘Fuck you, asshole. Take him. His name is Toby.’</p>
<p>Schlatt didn’t bother to change it. He nicknamed the boy Tubbo- At first it was an accident, before he’d gotten fully clean, at some point he flat out forgot the poor kid’s name and called him Tubbo instead- And then it stuck, and he kept doing it until the name went from salt in the wound to a fatherly nickname, spoken only in a soft, gentle tone that Schlatt reserved for no one but his son. </p>
<p>Schlatt’s shaken from his thoughts when he bumps into the counter- Damned apartment is too cramped, even for a man and a half. He snorts, and glances down at Tubbo. The faun-like boy skitters over to the opposite counter, stands on his toes- he’s wearing fuzzy little bee-shaped slippers- and points at the cabinet above the counter. Schlatt picks up on what he wants pretty easily. Cereal. The sweet wonders of cereal, father-son bonding was the best over cereal.</p>
<p>Schlatt follows after Tubbo, scritching his head in silent reassurance and pulling the cabinet opened- Four options. Cereal was one of the only food choices in the whole damn apartment that had more than two options. Want a sandwich? Ham and cheese. No turkey. No lettuce. Just ham and cheese. Want a snack? You’re either stuck eating the fucking cereal or you’re eating stale oyster crackers, the choice was obvious. Cereal. Always cereal. </p>
<p>In a row on the bottom shelf of the cabinet was- in order, left to right- Captain Crunch Berries, Oh’s, Eggo Cereal, and Oreo O’s. There were, unfortunately, no Quisps in the apartment- Schlatt once had to hunt for two hours to try and find the things online, and when they do have them in the house, they’re saved for special occasions where Schlatt deep-dives into the lore about the shit because Tubbo is always mesmerized by the stories on the backs of cereal boxes. And on top of that, it’s the middle of June. Count Chocula is also not on the table for another four months, which tears shreds into Schlatt’s poor, cereal loving heart each and every time he opens the cabinets. </p>
<p>“Which one, Buddy,” Schlatt hums, wiping the tiredness from his eyes while he watches Tubbo bounce on his heels and consider the options. Schlatt isn’t sure he can read the boxes. But at the very least, he seems to recognize the colors and what flavors correlate with the cereals inside each colored box, which is enough for him to be confident in the kid’s choice. Besides, Schlatt has a feeling he already knows which one he’s gonna go for.</p>
<p>“Blue,” he chirps, before skittering back to the opposite counter, and opening one of the bottom cabinets to root around for bowls, trying and effectively being helpful. </p>
<p>The chocolate cereal, of course. No surprise there. Retrieving the box, he sets it atop the counter Tubbo is at, and pats him on the back in thanks, retrieving the milk next.</p>
<p>The rest of the morning goes without a hitch, for the most part. They eat, mumble to each-other- Or rather, Tubbo rambles, stumbling over his words now and again and occasionally pausing to try and remember what he was going to say. He’s talking about his favorite cartoons, mostly, and Schlatt is entirely willing to listen, going so far as to snort or hum in agreement in the intervals where Tubbo would pause. He wants to encourage the behavior. He really hopes Tubbo is this talkative and cheerful his whole life. A little voice in the back of his head tells him that won’t be the case as long as he has Schlatt for a father. He tries his best to ignore it.</p>
<p>When breakfast is over, Schlatt asks Tubbo to put the bowls in the sink- He’ll get around to the dishes eventually, he reasons with himself. He’s too tired to do it this morning. Content to believe Tubbo will find a way to preoccupy himself with the television, Schlatt finds himself wandering to the bathroom on auto-pilot, and he slumps against the door when he shuts it. </p>
<p>It’s not anything Tubbo did, he immediately tells himself. He always seems to feel a need to remind himself whenever he’s stressed, tired or frustrated that Tubbo didn’t do anything wrong, that it isn’t Tubbo’s fault. He doesn’t know why. Schlatt is rather certain it has to do with the lingering fear that he’ll one day snap at Tubbo, tell him off for something he didn’t do or start blaming him for how piss-poor his lifestyle is. And it’s true, Tubbo isn’t responsible for that. </p>
<p>Schlatt wipes a hand over his eyes, and only realizes he’s made his way to the sink when he opens his eyes again- when did he get here? His hands drop to the cold porcelain of the counter, and he stares solemnly in the mirror, hands gripping the tile of the sink. He leans forward, examining himself. He has dark bags under his eyes, he’s tired and pale- this isn’t a new sight at all. His facial hair is growing out again, slowly, and his ears are, as always, folded back and drooped. And his horns- his horns are still small, poking out from his hair and barely curling back over his head. In a few years time they’ll be the size of a ram’s horns. He has a hard time pushing the slow, creeping thought in the back of his head away, but it persists.</p>
<p>In a few years, Toby will have horns just like these.</p>
<p>He doesn’t notice when his hands begin to shake, his long, dark nails ache with the pressure he puts on them as he tries in vain to dig them into the bathroom counter. It’s not that Schlatt is angry- No, not at all. Tubbo never asked for this, none of it is his fault, and Schlatt knows that. He’s frustrated, tired, worried, and- not that he’d ever admit it- scared. But not angry. For the life of him, Schlatt could never bear to bring himself to be angry with Tubbo about their situation, and he reminds himself more times than he can count on his hands every day. It’s his own fault. He’s the perfect son at the worst time, and Schlatt scowls at the thought. It’s by no means the first time he’s considered throwing out years worth of progress and giving Tubbo away to someone who can better handle raising a child than him- Hell, he already has someone in mind, he’s just too scared to go through with it. But why?</p>
<p>On one hand, if Schlatt did it now, Tubbo would forget what Schlatt looked like, who he is, and where he grew up for the first few years of his life in just a few years- That’d be preferable if Schlatt gives Tubbo away. He’ll never have to remember, and he won’t grieve- Not for long, anyways. But that’s just it. Tubbo will forget him. He’ll forget he ever existed. A part of Schlatt hates that, and he just knows his weak resolve against his old habits will shatter the second the grief hits him. It leaves him nauseous just to think about it.</p>
<p>But on the other hand, if Schlatt keeps Tubbo, he just knows he’ll fail him. He doesn’t know how, but he will. He’s still young, and he’s hardly mature enough to handle a son, and this has been the very thought coursing through his head every day for the past couple years. He didn’t want this. It just happened. And he knows himself well enough to know that he fucks up every good thing he’s given, and he doesn’t want to fuck up Tubbo. He deserves better than that. So much better. And Schlatt knows exactly where he can have that better life, but every time he considers going through with it, he hesitates, and something leads him to decide against it. Be it the gentle way Tubbo will cling to Schlatt’s fingers as he drags him around the house or down the street to the park, or the guilt that seeps through his veins in the middle of the night and soaks through his bones in shades of red, boiling fear, pity and hate. </p>
<p>He only registers how tight his chest feels when he exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His shoulders and arms shake involuntarily, and he squeezes his eyes shut, pushing every last thought to the back of his mind just in time to register another soft knock. He opens the door and mumbles an apology, paired with a reassuring smile as he scoops Tubbo into his arms, and carries him back to the living room. </p>
<p>Everything is going to be fine.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Nothing is fine.</p>
<p>Schlatt found himself wide awake in the middle of the night again, except this time, the night felt like it dragged on longer than usual. Despite being lost in thought for what felt like hours, only thirty minutes had passed since he laid in bed. He can feel the panic rising in his chest, and he sits up in his bed, hunching over his legs and pressing his palms against his closed eyes, rubbing fiercely at his eyelids as if it’ll help. It doesn’t. Not in the slightest. Those wandering thoughts from earlier in the morning linger in his head, and he feels like he’s going to cry. His eyes are burning and his throat is tight. He won’t let himself, granted- Not in a million years, but fuck, if the thought of letting it happen wasn’t inviting. </p>
<p>Thirty more minutes pass, and he still finds himself struggling to make the time pass faster because he already knows sleeping isn’t an option. He’s pacing his room now, too afraid to leave his room, fearing what he’d do if he did. </p>
<p>When another thirty more minutes of endlessly thinking, pacing, and panicking pass, he has no choice but to find out, having grown impatient with how slowly the night dragged on.</p>
<p>He goes firstly to the kitchen, rooting silently through the junk drawer in the kitchen for a pen- He finds one, as well as a note-pad, and finds himself scribbling on the paper without much thought. He doesn’t reread the note when it’s done, and reasons that he’s only writing it so he has something to leave for Tubbo if he ever does give him up. Deep down, though, that’s not the real reason. The real reason he wrote it down was because he already knew tonight was the night. He just didn’t want to believe it. </p>
<p>He doesn’t realize he’s packed a bag until he’s in Tubbo’s room, a backpack and a duffle bag hanging over his shoulder, and the note stashed in his back pocket. He kneels down by Tubbo’s bed, trying his damndest to lift the faun-boy up without waking him, and failing miserably- Tubbo wasn’t the type to stay awake for car rides, all it’d take is one little fib, and-</p>
<p>“Where’we going, pop?” Tubbo mumbles, squeezing the little bee plush cradled in his arms close and burying his face between the bee’s wings. Schlatt finds himself stopping in the middle of the hallway, squeezing Tubbo a little closer in a tight embrace. A part of him is screaming to turn around- To tuck Tubbo back in, and get back into bed, and forget he ever considered this. Go back. Go back. Go back. You don’t have to do this, not now. Not yet. You can keep trying, he doesn’t hate you yet, you haven’t fucked everything up yet, you can still go back.</p>
<p>“Road trip, buddy,” Schlatt finds himself whispering instead, offering a small, sleepy smile. Tubbo can’t see it, his eyes are already closed again. Schlatt carries on the lie anyways, moreso to comfort himself than anything else. “To see an old friend. You’re gonna love it, where we’re goin’.”</p>
<p>The words are bitter on Schlatt's tongue, they taste like acid and iron, and the feeling is dizzying. Schlatt lays Tubbo sitting up in a car-seat in the back of his car, buckles him in, cocoons a blanket around him, and closes the door. He climbs into the drivers’ seat next, and sets the old moving box and the bags in the front seat. He turns on the car and starts driving before he can give himself the chance to glance at the back seat. He can’t go back now. He’s too far in to coward out of this now, he reasoned with himself.</p>
<p>Three-fourths through the drive, Schlatt stops at a gas station. It’s an old thing- not even a chain gas-station- tucked away on the side of the road he’d been taking to the next highway he’d have to turn on before making it out to the countryside. He figured he’d be better off stopping here than he would be somewhere busy. Just before he pays for the gas at the register though, something catches his eye, and it wrenches his heart. Keychains. They’re small, and pretty cheap. They come in all shapes and sizes, but it wasn’t the fact that they’re keychains that caught his eye- It was the bee-shaped ones that caught his attention. There were only two left, and before he could break down into tears or convince himself it was a sign and turn back, he wordlessly placed both on the counter, and paid the woman. She didn’t ask any questions, and he speed-walked out of the station when he got his card and the keychains. He put one in his console, and put the other in the box, before pulling out of the lot.</p>
<p>By the time he arrives at an old, gravel path out in the middle of nowhere, the sun is barely about to rise. He can’t see it on the horizon yet, but he can see light in the distance.</p>
<p>Schlatt pulls up to a house nestled at the very edge of a forest, at the furthest reach of the gravel path- whether it was just a long ass driveway, or an actual path that could’ve led somewhere was unclear. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t care. He slouches in the seat once he puts the car in park, exhaling a quivering breath, and shutting his eyes as he leans his forehead against the steering wheel. No going back now. He did, after all, drive hours to get there- To turn back now would be a waste of gas, and Tubbo would surely wake up halfway home asking what happened. He doesn’t know what he’d say if that happened. He takes five minutes to muster up the courage to get out of the car.</p>
<p>His boots crunched against the gravel when he got out, and he paused to breathe in the air. It’s different from the city air. Less contaminated. More freeing. He paused, anxiously waiting to see if there’s a breeze out, and if leaving Tubbo outside like this would be a bad idea- But there’s none. It was warm out, of course, and the sun wasn’t anywhere near beating down yet. Not to mention, he planned on knocking before fleeing anyways. He’s not a complete monster.</p>
<p>He walks around the car, pulling out the bags and tucking them- as well as some blankets- into the box. Schlatt sets it on the front porch of the old looking house, and makes his way back to the car, lifting Tubbo up and out of the back seat, and shuffling quietly-as-possible to the front door to lay him down, curled up, in the box. He paused to make sure he had the bee-plush with him, and sat down on the stairs atop the porch, if only for a second. He stared, and considered, and refrained from reaching out to hug Tubbo- refrained from saying anything, scared he’ll wake the kid up. His eyes were burning again. He blinked back tears, and slowly eased to a stand, pressing his hand repeatedly against the doorbell- which was muffled from the outside of the house, but surely loud on the inside- before he turned around, and picked up into a sprint for his car. No time to hesitate. He couldn’t. Not now.</p>
<p>He doesn’t remember getting into the car, fumbling to turn the key and turn on the car, or slamming his foot on the gas. But he would always remember looking in the rearview mirror, and vividly seeing Phil, wings outstretched in what must’ve been surprised, staring right at Schlatt’s car, a concerned and sleepy looking Wilbur peeking into the box, holding Tommy back from racing out of the house, and Techno- who must’ve been visiting Phil, because if Schlatt’s memory served him right, he wasn’t related to the small family- was he? Schlatt was never sure- resting a hand on Phil’s shoulder, and leaning down to examine the box- Or perhaps read the note in the box. </p>
<p>Schlatt didn’t manage to get halfway home before he stopped at a liquor store and booked a hotel to break down in. He spent a week at that hotel, and all his years of suppressing terrible habits came racing back, as did the realizations that he’d fucked up, that he missed his son, and that he couldn’t take back what he’d just done. It was damn well too late, and he was too busy burying himself in the several tons of self pity and alcohol to even consider going back anyways.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Nations fall and rise, the world goes to shit and comes back again- And so it repeats, over and over and over again. The rise of nations resulted in irreversible disaster in a once peaceful world. Some things never change, and other things just repeat like a broken record. Or in this case, a broken disc.</p>
<p>A little more than twelve years go by, and Tubbo stands directly behind Tommy, who holds a loaded crossbow, pointing at the dead-center of Schlatt’s forehead. In an instant, his best friend could end the life of a tyrant, and Tubbo wants nothing more than for all the pain and suffering to end. He keeps relatively quiet as he watches Schlatt stumble, the broken bottle he’d previously attacked Fundy with dropping to the floor with a clash, and Tubbo stiffens, clutching at the bags of potions at his side, ready to drop a strength pot at any given second. Schlatt isn’t strong, by any means, especially now, and he knows Tommy could kill Schlatt faster than either Wilbur or Tubbo could ask him to- But the fear lingers, the tension lingers. This is the same man that had him executed, the same man that kept him around as his right hand despite knowing Tommy- the person he’d exiled- was his best friend. And for what? A sick game. Tubbo didn’t quite know how to put the trauma into words. So he didn’t. </p>
<p>He kept silent, and watched as Schlatt collapsed to the ground with a sharp wheeze, clutching his chest, and in the midst of everyone’s shouting, Tubbo swears he hears Schlatt say something that makes him freeze-</p>
<p>“To--, don’t kill me, I’m afraid of dying.”</p>
<p>Tubbo swears he said Toby. Nobody uses his real name, nobody except a select few know it, and those that do only use it affectionately. It’s a personal thing, something saved for his best friend and the extended family that took him in when he was little. So he clutches Tommy’s arm, pulling him backwards a step just in time for Schlatt to collapse forward onto his stomach, muttering something about toast. Big Q kneels down to investigate, and Tubbo isn’t certain what happens from that point forward. He remembers Quackity being enraged by whatever Schlatt’s final words were, but he didn’t think twice. He was more focused on his second to last words. </p>
<p>Tubbo mentioned the matter to Tommy later that night when they finally had a moment to sit down and breathe after the day’s events, after he’d been called President, L’manburg had been blown up, and the withers defeated. Tubbo was tired, as was Tommy, so they shrugged it off and Tommy reassured him it was probably just Schlatt saying Tommy’s name- After all, Tommy was the one aiming a weapon for the kill.</p>
<p>Tubbo agreed. But part of him still wondered.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>It’s been almost three months since Tubbo became president of L’manburg. He was arguably the worst president there ever was- Sure, Wilbur blew it all up, sure, Schlatt was a tyrant who killed countless souls, including Tubbo himself, but ultimately, Tubbo was the one that caused the final blow, and he was also the one that grinded it under his boot into the dirt. Granted, it wasn’t intentional by any means, his goal the whole time was to save his nation, his home- But some things just can’t be saved, and some damages cannot be repaired.</p>
<p>So now, Tubbo sits on the floor of his still empty cabin. He’d run away, feeling a sense of freedom from the responsibilities of running a nation. Freed from consequences, freed from the Dream SMP, if he so pleased. He was slouched over a few boxes of clutter he’d kept to himself ever since L’manburg started- Momentos, things he wanted to keep with him forever to some day gently and fondly recall. Perhaps not all the memories would be fond, but most of them would be. </p>
<p>Having just finished placing his broken compass in a little glass safe-box to be stored until he could somehow get it fixed, he leaned back, and pulled the next box towards himself. Setting it in his lap, he began to root around. This box appeared to contain some of his oldest belongings, and as such he wanted to be extra careful with them- however, he paused after setting the old bee-plush at his side, staring at the contents that were beneath the plush.</p>
<p>He hadn’t checked this box in years, to be honest. He doesn’t remember if he ever touched it, aside from retrieving his bee plush when he was anxious or needed a friend- And yet, Tubbo finds himself staring at countless things that slowly sink into his skin and make him freeze, his shoulders stiffening. Pictures of a young Schlatt carrying around a small, faun-like boy on his shoulders, in his arms, or under one arm. They seem happy. It’s a stark contrast to the alcohol he knew. The faun-like boy has deep green eyes, dark brown hair, fluffy little ears, and a bee plush that looks identical to Tubbo’s own bee plush. It begins to click who the little faun boy is, and he only seems to grow tenser, a hand lifting almost self-consciously to one of his own ears- And his horns. Horns that look identical to the man in the pictures’ horns, albeit quite a bit shorter. Countless memories come racing back to him, one by one, all of them still too-fresh.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>“You know you’d do anything for me, right Tubbo?” Schlatt mutters, slowly pointing at the walls.</p>
<p>Tubbo doesn’t hesitate. He fears what would happen if he did. “Yes, Schlatt,” he murmured, staring at the ground. He knows what Schlatt wants. He dreads the response anyways, and wishes he’d fled L’manburg while he had the chance. He doesn’t want to tear down the walls.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>“Give me the damn book!” Schlatt snapped, only for Tommy to cut in. Tubbo fumbled to retrieve the book Schlatt asked for, waving Tommy away and attempting to silently encourage him to be quiet. He anxiously offers the book to Schlatt, and Schlatt snatches it away- But Tubbo doesn’t miss the strange look Schlatt gives him. The way his head swivels to spare a second glance at Tubbo, the way his eyebrows creased and the way his lips curled into an expression of disgust. For once, Tubbo wasn’t sure if it was disgust towards him, or if Schlatt was disgusted with himself.</p>
<p>Tubbo chose to never ask about it.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>“You know we like to have fun here,” Schlatt started, a smile that screamed danger spreading across his features- “Right, Tubbo?”</p>
<p>Tubbo couldn’t bring himself to panic, not in this tense a situation. So he listened, and nodded, and couldn’t help the nervous tears brimming at his eyes when Schlatt hummed in acknowledgement, forcibly held Tubbo’s wrists to the chair, and shackled him to the throne. And minutes later, when Technoblade was standing in front of him, a loaded crossbow pointed right at him, Tubbo spared a horrified glance at Schlatt, a desperate cry for help, pleading in vain that he’d call it off.</p>
<p>He didn’t. But before he shot a final glance to Tommy, he caught the way Schlatt’s eyes widened, the way his pupils shrank, and the way his frame stiffened. Whether he was bracing for impact at the realization he’d be caught in the crossfire or if it was something else flew past Tubbo’s head entirely- He didn’t have the time to consider it before the sharp, burning, piercing feeling shot straight through his torso, and he lost consciousness with a final, agonized sob. </p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Tubbo stares at the dead form of the tyrant he’d finally escaped, and doesn’t hesitate to drag Tommy- everyone else following in tow- out of the van. He doesn’t want to look. For some reason, the sight is nauseating. He can’t pinpoint why, he should be happy after all. Shouldn’t he?</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Tubbo frowns as he roots around the contents of the previous President’s belongings, having decided to sort through the white house and reclaim it, thanks to Fundy and Big Q’s insistence. However, something had caught his eye. A little bee-shaped keyring, the same shape as his own, which he’d had for as long as he could remember. It stings to look at it, though. Something about it seems different from his own. </p>
<p>He keeps it anyways.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Tubbo stares out upon his dead nation. He vaguely hears Big Q ask how he did it- How he somehow became a worse President than Schlatt and Wilbur combined. A sad smile crosses his features, and somehow, he finds himself snorting in amusement. </p>
<p>“To be honest,” he mumbled, “I’m beginning to think I was worse than Schlatt. Or- Well-. Schlatt was better than me.”</p>
<p>Nobody argues. It reaffirms Tubbo’s suspicions, and leaves an inconsolable ache in his chest.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Tubbo’s shoulders shake- which is possibly the only thing that brings him back to reality- and he drops the box, as well as the photos inside, scrambling back. It doesn’t change anything, though, They still exist. They’re still right there in front of him. He scrambles to clean them up, fearful someone will see them, despite the fact that he’s alone, in the middle of nowhere. He shoves everything except the plush into the box, and hurries to hide it in the cellar- After which, he scrambles to carry on with his day, mind buzzing with a million different thoughts.</p>
<p>It takes a few hours, but eventually, he ponders aloud- He teeters on the edge of daring, treading a thin line between an insane idea and what may very well be a good idea.</p>
<p>“This may sound strange,” he murmures to himself- if only to toss the idea onto the table and see if he sounds as crazy as he feels- “But I think I want to talk to Schlatt.”</p>
<p>The feeling lingers for the rest of the day. A little longer than the rest of the day, actually. It lasts a while.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i hope u liked that. i liked writing it. gimme feedback. validate me. that is all.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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